


Restless

by babylonne



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Group Sex, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10192958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylonne/pseuds/babylonne
Summary: Emhyr’s victory in the war leads to the continuation of his reign long past the date he gave Ciri when he convinced her to step into her role as Empress. As the precious heir to the throne, she is confined to the palace boundaries and forbidden from picking up a sword. Her spirit crushed by the relentless monotony of her days, Ciri finds other interesting and risky pursuits to occupy her nights in the company of the sons and daughters of Nilfgaard’s nobility.





	

She slips into a silky robe like it is her second skin. Cool and light, it is altogether a ridiculous choice for cold Nilfgaardian winters but the palace is warm enough and besides, it will soon be discarded. The Princess wears nothing underneath and the outline of her curves are visible beneath the thin material. Her nipples are erect and ache a little from the chill.

When she enters the chamber, Ciri feels something akin to a flicking of delight as she sees the blazing candles mounted in brackets along the wall. Fire is dancing along the walls, and in her veins. She strides to the tables, barefoot, where she is greeted by name with her companions. Looking upon them is like looking into a mirror; they all share the same outward characteristics. They are the noble youth of the palace, with round, moonlike eyes and hollow expressions. A young woman slides a velvet pouch across the tables with a razor blade. Ciri empties the fisstech onto the table and chops the crystals into a fine powder. She separates it into lines with a delicate and practised hand, then quickly ingests it through her nose. The table’s occupants have been watching her but now they seem to collectively exhale and settle back into their seats. Their eyes glaze over.

Ciri rubs her nose and wipes away a little droplet of blood. It never hits her straight away, she always needs a minute or two before the world starts swimming. But she starts swimming too, swimming faster than the current. The princess crosses and uncrosses her legs. Her nails tap out a tuneless song against the table’s surface. Soon it will be time for her to lose herself in the night. Forget the dreadful listlessness and monotony of the day.

Her blood boils as the musical entourage strikes up a tune. Together, this room comprises the richest group of Nilfgaardians below the age of twenty-five. Each night brings different forms of revelry, new and wonderful kinds of entertainment for young minds who are not permitted to intervene in politics, nor capable of fighting in the empire’s endless wars of aggression. Perhaps they have older siblings or parents who carry out these duties; or maybe, like Ciri, they must be kept safe and wait until they come of an age to assume their rightful place. Whatever they reason, every person in this chamber has come for one reason: they have grown entirely dissatisfied with their meaningless existences.

Ciri trained to be a witcher; she has no sword.

Ciri came to Nilfgaard to rule for the betterment of the people; her throne has been stolen.

With a tight smile on her face that she could not remove if she tried, Ciri takes the hands of a beautiful woman with dark brown curls loosely pinned on top of her head. As they spin around the room, Ciri is laughing and crying in turn, the emotions bubbling up from a place in her chest that feels slightly fuller for being here this night. Usually it is hollow. The combination of their frenetic movements, fumbling hands, and twirling pulls Ciri’s robe open and time fractures for a moment. She finds herself on the floor with a different woman, unaware of how they came to be in this position. This is the effect of the fisstech. Time’s linear flow seizes up and she cannot keep track of its passage. At first, she detested it. Now, she surrenders to it. There is so much to focus on, she cannot possibly make sense of it all.

Ciri concentrates all her attention on the woman. She will not ask her name, though the woman certainly knows hers. There are many noble families in Nilfgaard and the princess does not have the energy nor the fortitude to study them all. The stranger’s hands are stroking her hair while her mouth is busy at Ciri’s neck. Ciri raises her own hands, which are halfway to numb and tingling most strangely, running them down her anonymous companion’s neck. She lingers at her full breasts but surpasses them in pursuit of her goal; to reach the wet heat between the woman’s legs. Time fractures again, and this time, Ciri is lying on her back with her legs spread. The same head with brown curls, all of which have escaped their loose up-do, is between her thighs. Brunette locks spill over the woman’s shoulders and are tickling her legs. Ciri arches her back and moans, noting in the back of her mind that she is not the only occupant of the room making such rapturous sounds of pleasure. A practised tongue laps at her folds and she can feel herself growing wetter as the woman increases her pace, licking faster while Ciri bucks and moans. She is writhing on the carpet, and almost lets out a shriek as her companion adds not one but two fingers.

Only distinctly does she notice that her head is reclining in the lap of another. Her head presses against a decidedly male groin, but the man has no such designs on her body. Instead her holds up a small plant, which looks almost like a vanilla pod. Ciri’s mind is hazy but she knows that it is not vanilla.

He speaks and his voice is like a melting waterfall. _Try this, your Imperial Highness_ , is what Ciri thinks he has said. But she cannot ascertain the words or ask him to repeat himself before he slits open the pod with a little knife and the viscous black juice dribbles out into her open mouth. He leaves her and goes elsewhere. Ciri does not care because unlike the fisstech, the pod’s juice affects her in the space of seconds. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire. The edges of her vision blur but she can only focus on the sensations ripping through her flesh. It drains all her ability to move her limbs of her own accord. This is not a problem because at that moment, the tongue stops licking at her and the hand stops pumping between her legs. Ciri lets out a groan at the loss, feeling more keenly than ever the absence of a presence between her thighs. The hand is instantly replaced and she is rolled onto her side.

A nobleman buries himself in her slick walls and begins pounding away almost mercilessly. She howls with pleasure, almost deaf to his own grunting. Someone else’s mouth wraps around her nipple and sucks, pinching the other with a soft hand that could only belong to a woman. Ciri wants to push back onto her partner but she is paralysed. Overwhelmed by the sensations generated through the pod’s juice, she weeps involuntarily. The space between her legs is on aflame and Ciri can feel her release building with all the force of a violent tempest. His thighs are slapping against her buttocks and sending intense vibrations through the lower half of her body.

Trailing down from her breasts, the woman’s hand finds the most sensitive spot on her sex and strokes a few times. The area is already soaked in her juices and Ciri peaks, screaming out. Her body and inner walls contract. Her heart and head are pounding and for a very brief moment, everything is silent though she can see everyone’s mouths moving. She feels like she has been submerged under water and lit on fire at the same time. Panting, she feels her partner come with a burst of wet heat, and linger inside her. He wraps his arms around her quivering form as he rides out his own release.

Her eyes begin to droop of their own accord but instead, Ciri shrugs her partner away and stands, seeking another tell-tale velvet pouch. She does not want to miss a second of this night. Ciri spies what she was looking for resting on a cushion and ingests the powder with utmost urgency, after preparing it with shaking hands. It will be another week of monotony before her life is this bright and alive again; before they can arrange another evening of entertainment for Nilfgaard’s restless youths. These nights _have_ to fill the empty space in the meantime. With a jolt, Ciri wipes the powder remnants from her noise and goes again to join the fray.


End file.
